|Charlie Brown (center) is now a surfer on Kauai.|
Then last week we were visiting family in Hawaii and the unthinkable happened: I realized on the way to the airport that we hadn't seen Charlie Brown in two days. He appears to have vanished into thin air (or taken up surfing); I have no idea where we lost him, only that he is gone.
Now the good news is that Henry appears to be unfazed. Sure, he's asked for Charlie Brown a few times, and we've replied that Charlie Brown seems to have taken a longer vacation in Hawaii than we did, but it hasn't turned into some huge loss drama of the type that you think will scar your child for life.
But the bad news is that I'm devastated.
Yes, I feel like the worst parent ever (apparently this is common amongst parents who lose or otherwise ruin their children's stuffed animals), and yes, I scoured the Internet trying to find the same bear (no luck. Charlie Brown was in fact a Disney Pooh bear who has since been wiped off the face of the earth. and yes, I know how odd it seems that anything ever licensed and sold by Disney could ever truly disappear).
But part of my devastation lies in the fact that the loss of Charlie Brown has stirred memories of another lost bear. His name was Eon, he was a lovely plush polar bear with an upturned nose, and a friend got him for me at the National Zoo in about 1985. Well into my adulthood, Eon was in my life. No, I didn't sleep with him (I actually have a thing against adults and stuffed animals), but he was generally around and was in fine shape thanks to occasional dry cleaning. In the back of my mind I thought maybe my progeny would enjoy Eon, how great it would be for my cute toddler to hug a bear I'd lugged around for years.
But the years wore on, and on. I turned 30, 35, 40, and breakups, not children, appeared to be the defining feature of my life. I don't remember when it happened, but finally, in a fit of cynicism and likely after being dumped, I did the unthinkable: I threw Eon away. Tossed him a wicker waste basket (a sort of purgatory which in retrospect I wish I'd had second thoughts about and retrieved him), an act that then meant finalizing the dismissal by putting him in a garbage bag and throwing him in a dumpster. I didn't even think of donating him, I was that bitter, and that hopeless. That determined to purge my life of reminders of the hope of having a family. Subsequently, I think I even forgot about poor, loyal ole Eon.
And then at age 41 I met my husband, and then when I was 42 we had Henry. And then, of course, I remembered Eon, who is no doubt deep in a landfill, and if ever there's an object I have deep regrets about disposing of, it's him. I honestly can't believe I was that heartless.
But I can believe I was that angry. Years of disappointment in my love life and the evil reality that one's ovaries age more quickly than the rest of one does wore me down to a nub of pure anger. It was a primitive state, and oh how I wish I'd had a little more perspective, a little more hope, a little more of that elusive thing called faith. Oddly, casual as I was about Eon, he was important. He was a beacon, and I didn't even know it.
But if he were here, and Charlie Brown too, I'm pretty sure they'd be great friends, and they'd have a message for women in their late thirties or early forties who are where I was then: Have hope. Much as you may be tempted, don't ever throw away your Eon.